The Devil's Opera(75)

An expression of sorrow and pain crossed Fraulein Metzger’s face. “Yes. Of course. So much there was before the sack of the city.” She faced forward and resumed her progress.

Their mutual journey ended at a flight of wooden steps up the outside of a building. Fraulein Metzger turned to face him once again.

“I remember Margarethe Hoch. A sweet girl.” She paused for a moment. “Those were good times. Give her my greetings, please.”

“I will,” Gotthilf said. “May I help you in any way?” he continued, as she set foot on the first stair tread.

“No,” Fraulein Metzger responded. “There is nothing you can do to help.” She looked back over her shoulder with a smile. “But thank you for asking.”

And with that, she began her slow ascent up the stairs, one tread at a time, using her cane and the railing to pull herself up over the obstacle that her right leg presented. Gotthilf waited at the bottom, watching, until she had attained the landing outside her door. She pulled a key from a pocket in her jacket, unlocked the door, and entered in without looking at him.

After the door closed, he heaved a sigh, and stood staring at nothing in particular for a long moment. That last smile—that was the face of the girl he had seen before the sack. That was the face of the woman who might have been, before her body was wrecked by God-knows-what horrible accident. It was the face of a woman that he was beginning to find very interesting, God help him.

He looked up to see a Polizei patrolman walking down the block toward him. He stepped away from the stairs and beckoned to the man. It was one of the older hands, so they recognized each other.

“Good afternoon, Sergeant Hoch,” the patrolman said. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Do you know the people who live up these stairs, Phillip?”

“Aye. That would be Hans Metzger, a warehouse worker and sometime fighter in the contests held out at the old bear-baiting pit; his sister Ursula, the cripple; and some boy that seems to have moved in with them recently.”

“The boy would be Simon Bayer, and no, I don’t know if he is really from Bavaria.”

“Is there something you need from them, Sergeant?”

“Yes, uh, no. Not from them. What I want is for you and your mates to keep an eye on Fraulein Metzger. See to it that no one bothers her.”

“Right. Keep a protective watch on the Fraulein. I will pass the word to Bastian and Johann. They usually walk the other shifts on this patrol. Anything else?”

Gotthilf hesitated for a moment, then said, “Also keep an eye on her brother. If you notice anyone spending a lot of time with him, I want to know about it. If he has any unusual visitors, I want to know about it. If he disappears for any period of time, I want to know about it.”

“Right, sir. Will do.”

“That’s all, Phillip. Send word to the main station if anything comes up I need to hear about.”

The watchman touched the brim of his hat in salute, and moved on down the street. Gotthilf looked up at the door into the Metzger apartment, feeling as if he had perhaps betrayed a friend.





Part Three

February 1636

Let me write the songs of a nation, and I care not who makes its laws.

—Dónal Ó Conaill





Chapter 31

Magdeburg

Right in the middle of the big Act III duet between Guinevere and Arthur, Marla started coughing. It was more than a small cough. It bordered on a paroxysm; cough followed cough followed cough. The rehearsal ground to a halt around her, and after a moment, Amber Higham picked up a bottle and brought it to her.

Marla finally got whatever it was in her throat cleared out, and took a breath. She felt light-headed after all that, and she must have looked pale, because Dieter Fischer—not the radio preacher, the other one, the singer—who was singing the role of Arthur took her by the arm and led her back to her stool. Amber handed her the bottle of purified water, and she sipped at it, then held the cool ceramic of the bottle against her forehead.

“Better now?” Amber asked.

She took another sip of water, then nodded.

“Yeah. I don’t know what caused that, but it’s over.”

Amber studied her with practiced eyes, and evidently came to a decision, because she announced, “That’s all for today, folks. We’ll pick back up tomorrow afternoon at one o’clock. And Dieter,” she pointed a finger at the baritone, “don’t forget your music again.”

“Yes, Frau Amber,” he muttered against the laughter of the other singers in the room.

“You don’t need to do that, Amber,” Marla protested. “I’m okay now, we can keep going.”